Even Sherlock Does Stupid Things Sometimes
by Cucumber
Summary: John nearly catches Sherlock with a prostitute, which he thinks is a very bad idea. Rated M: Mature themes and non-detailed description of a sexual nature. One shot.


At first it was the same as the last month. She came up the stairs to 221B Baker Street. She rode him for five minutes. He came. He gave her 200 pounds. She left.

But then something went horribly wrong.

Someone was coming up the stairs. Had to be John, based on the sound of the footfalls.

Sherlock stripped off the condom, tossed it under the couch, rearranged his robe, and tried to act natural. He came very close to praying that John hadn't seen the woman who'd just left.

What was John doing home so early from his "date," Sherlock wondered. When he spoke, he tried to erase the mocking air quotes that were in his head: "Date not go well, John?"

"The restaurant lost my reservation, so we had to go somewhere else. It wasn't quite fancy enough for Zara. Remind me never to go out with a woman who wears shoes that cost more than my rent," John said.

"Duly noted," Sherlock said. He almost sighed in relief. Even though John wasn't acting like he was particularly upset, no doubt he'd want to simply go to his room and lick his wounds in peace.

But no, John was still standing in the living room, his jacket on. John turned to look at the door behind him.

"Was that woman coming from our flat?" he said, confused.

Sherlock briefly considered lying. "Yes," he said, finally.

"It's a bit late for a client. And why aren't you dressed?"

Sherlock was in a bind and didn't know what to say. Unfortunately his silence said more than words.

"Was that a prostitute?" John said. He looked back and forth from the door to Sherlock in complete disbelief.

"I have needs," Sherlock said.

John's response was immediate. "Prostitution is illegal, immoral, and dangerous. What are you thinking? This is the sort of thing you can take care of on your own. It's not like eating in a restaurant by yourself, feeling like everyone is watching you and thinking how pathetic you are. Every man does it, Sherlock. It's completely normal and natural. My god, I feel like I'm talking to a teenager."

"Thank you, _doctor_."

John looked like he was going to have an apoplexy. "First drugs, now prostitution? Any other bad habits you want to share with me? Some gun running on the side? Maybe a bit of extortion?

"You could just get a girlfriend, Sherlock. Or a friend with benefits. Somebody who _wants_ to be with you!"

"That's enough, John. You've made your moralistic point of view quite clear."

"I don't think I have. Have you considered how this is going to look if it ever comes out? How badly it's going to embarrass yourself and your brother?"

For a minute Sherlock felt amused by the possibility of his brother's utter humiliation. But then he said: "I'm confident nobody's ever going to find out."

"In Afghanistan there were soldiers who were sure they were immortal. Nothing was going to touch them. Others were terrified that their luck was running out and they'd get a bullet between the eyes sooner or later. Others tried not to think about it. Do you know which of these young men ended up in my surgery? All of them. Bullets don't discriminate. It doesn't matter how much confidence you have. Things happen. _Shit_ happens."

"Bored now. Go away," Sherlock said.

John shot daggers at Sherlock, stomped off to his room, and slammed the door shut behind him.

As he ripped off his jacket off and tossed it on the bed, John thought: What a fantastically terrible thing Sherlock is doing. And yet, how human. How downright frail and human.

* * *

A few months later . . .

She came up the stairs to 221B Baker Street. She closed the door behind her and went to sit on Sherlock's lap.

His eyes had been closed when she'd walked in but now they were open. "You're not Isla," Sherlock said.

"No, Isla couldn't be here tonight. I'm Alice," the woman said.

"I specified no substitutes. Get out," Sherlock said.

"But I'm here already. I came all the way from, um, the other side of London for this."

"Who sent you?"

"The, um, secretary?"

"Wrong. You're not even a prostitute. That skirt is silk. Not wash and wear. How impractical is that? Next time at least do your homework."

Alice took two steps back away from Sherlock and collapsed on the couch. She was trembling. "I love you, Sherlock, okay? I'm here because I love you and I want you to be happy. When I saw that you were bringing prostitutes here I said to myself that this would be better."

Sherlock's blood ran cold. "What do you mean that you saw?"

"To be honest, I've been following you for a few months now. Watching the house, watching you work with the police. You're amazing. A god among men. How could I not love you?"

"You haven't been following me. I would have noticed," Sherlock said.

Now Alice was radiant. "You never did! Without this whole get-up—the hair, the makeup, the clothing, these high heels—I'm pretty forgettable. You see, I wasn't stalking you. I didn't try to contact you in any way or harass you. Give me a little credit. I love you. I wouldn't ever hurt you."

Sherlock most certainly did not want to give Alice any credit and he was extremely perturbed that he hadn't noticed her.

"You can't love me, you don't know me. You're delusional," he said almost absently.

"What is love except a chemical reaction in our bodies that we interpret as love? Isn't all love just a delusion? Isn't that why it's so easy to just fall out of love with somebody once the initial blossom wears off?"

Sherlock couldn't argue with that. It was a very good description of love.

"I'm a neurochemist," Alice said, almost apologetically.

Hmm, interesting, Sherlock thought. She could be somebody useful in the future. Best not to piss her off too much.

He tried to be conciliatory: "Yes, I understand. I see where you're coming from. But this isn't a good idea. You can plainly see that I don't want a relationship and eventually you'll want one. You won't want to come here month after month and receive nothing in return. Find yourself a nice boyfriend."

Alice looked down at her lap. "It's so hard. Interacting with other people and feeling like there's nothing really genuine between you. It's all just chemistry or biology or social expectations. People think I'm awfully peculiar. Making you happy would make me happy. I promise, I'd never expect anything more."

For a second Sherlock actually felt sorry for her, but then he remembered that she was here under false pretenses.

"I think you'd better go," he said, but not unkindly.

Alice looked like she wanted to protest, but Sherlock's expression was absolute. "Okay," she said and left, her footsteps on the stairs sounding heavy.

After she was well and truly gone, Sherlock reflected that maybe John was actually right. As preposterious as that sounded, John was right. Bringing someone here was dangerous. Even meeting someone at a hotel had its risks. He needed to quit before things got out of control.

He rang the agency. "This is client 45345. I'd like to cancel my appointments from here on."

"Yes, sir. May I ask why? Was there something about the service that was unsatisfactory? How about next month half price?"

"Everything has been fine. I've changed my mind, that's all."

He hung up the phone feeling a bit sad.

He missed Irene Adler so damn much.

THE END


End file.
